


The Beaufort Prince

by FalconHonour



Category: The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2019-09-22 04:52:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17053499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalconHonour/pseuds/FalconHonour
Summary: In June 1519, Mistress Elizabeth Blount gives birth to a healthy baby girl. A few years later, Lady Mary Carey nee Boleyn births a bouncing baby boy. Two seemingly simple events change England forever.





	1. Part I - 1519

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Robin4](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin4/gifts).



**June 1519**

"Mistress Blount has given birth to a healthy girl."

Henry froze. A girl. A girl. Bessie had given birth to – given _him_ – a girl.

He hadn't planned for that. Why would have he done? He'd been so convinced that his sons' failures to thrive lay within Katherine's womb, that with any other woman he'd be bound to have a son. And it had seemed as though God was proving him right, when Bessie had confided her pregnancy to him just weeks after Katherine had been brought to bed of a stillborn girl. A stillborn girl that was looking likely to be her last. He'd been convinced that God was telling him he was right. But now? Now everything he'd built his life upon for the past seven months had been shaken to its core.

"Sire?" Wolsey leaned forward slightly, plump brows creasing in agitation, "Sire?"

Henry shook himself slightly, mind whirring as he stared absently out of the nearest window. All he could think was one thing. Bessie wasn't married. Bessie wasn't married. Which meant, even if he hadn't been so blatant in his favour of her recently, the child could be no one's but his. He didn't even have the option of sheltering his parentage behind an amenable husband's name.

In that instant, Henry knew he'd never be so foolish as to dally with an unmarried woman again. He'd never risk exposing himself to this kind of embarrassment again.

"Sire?" Wolsey pressed, astonished at the King's lack of reaction. True, the fact that Mistress Blount's child was a girl and not a boy was a disappointment, but surely, given the Queen's lamentable record in childbed, any live child was a cause for celebration.

"Mistress Blount is asking what she should name the child, if Your Majesty has any particular desire one way or the other?"

Henry paused as Wolsey's words penetrated the fog that seemed to be surrounding him. He thought for a moment, and his lips curved into a bitter smile. Why not? There was a certain grim humour to be found in giving the girl that name. His Lady Grandmother would turn in her grave if she knew.

"Margaret," he said at last, "Tell Mistress Blount it would please me greatly if she named the child Margaret, after the late Countess of Richmond."

Wolsey nodded, "Of course, Sire. As you wish. And…if I might be so bold…the child's…"

"Blount, like her mother," Henry cut Wolsey off before he could finish his question, "Simply Blount. There's no need to make her life even harder by making her a FitzBlount."

Wolsey nodded, making a quick note. He hesitated. "Then… Your Majesty does not wish…"

"What use is another girl to me?" Henry said bluntly, "I was certain Bessie's child would be a boy. Certain of it, Thomas."

And then, he was gone. All of a sudden, he was gone, spinning on his heel, almost visibly pushing himself away from Wolsey, from the entire situation.

Wolsey exhaled, watching the King's retreating back. Well. That was clearly that.

* * *

 

**August 1519**

Bessie didn't want to admit that her hold on the King was slipping, but she knew it was. Indeed, if she was honest with herself, it had slipped irretrievably the moment she'd given birth to a daughter, rather than a son. Henry had been desperate to prove that the fault in the royal nursery lay with the Queen and not with him. She'd been supposed to help him do that. But she hadn't.

She hadn't, and the King hadn't visited her since. Oh, he'd looked in briefly a day or two after Margaret was born. He'd glanced in the cradle, pronounced the child a bonny lass, and wished her a speedy recovery, but that was all. He'd been gone the moment Margaret started mewling to be fed, as though he didn't want to be reminded of the child's presence at all.

She was to be churched next week, and despite herself, Bessie was dreading the return to Court. How could she face the Queen, after all this? How could she face her detractors, knowing they would be exulting in her failure?

Bessie was pulled from her musings by the grand entrance of the Cardinal. He swept into her bedchamber, an avuncular smile plastered across his jowly face.

"Ah, Mistress Blount," he beamed, "How are you today? And little Mistress Margaret?"

"I am well, thank you, Your Eminence. And the child is lively. Thriving on her wet nurse's milk, thankfully."

"It pleases me to hear it," The Cardinal nodded, "Now. I have come with news. No doubt you're beginning to wonder what will become of you and the child once you are churched."

Bessie's mouth went dry. Her mind went blank. All she could think was that it could not be good news. Otherwise the King would have come to tell her himself, surely?

It was all she could do to nod.

"I am, Your Eminence," she croaked.

"The King has graciously arranged for you to be married. To Sir Gilbert Tailboys."

Bessie's jaw dropped. She was to be married? But… But, surely her history, her newly-born daughter, precluded that as a possibility. Who would want to marry her now, with her virtue so besmirched?

It was only about a minute later that she realised the Cardinal was still speaking, explaining how everything was going to work, now she was no longer to be the King's favourite.

"You'll marry before the Court return from progress next month. I believe the King has agreed to make Sir Gilbert a Baron, effective from the wedding day. Baron Tailboys of Kyme."

In an instant, Bessie knew. The barony was to be her dowry, her new husband's prize for agreeing to take on the King's fallen favourite.

She felt sick. This wasn't how she'd imagined her wedding would be; a rushed, clandestine affair to save face, one where, rather than being a blushing bride, she was little more than chattel, traded for a title. And then it occurred to her. The Cardinal hadn't said a word about Margaret.

"And my daughter, Your Eminence?" Bessie couldn't help but glance towards the cradle in the corner, which stood empty, her daughter having woken shortly before, demanding a feed and a change.

The Cardinal blinked. "Mistress Blount. Do you really think the King would be so heartless as to take a child away from its mother, especially at such a tender age? Have no fear, Mistress Margaret will be joining you at Kyme, at least for the foreseeable future."

The Cardinal's voice was pleasant enough, but there was a note of finality in it that was clearly not to be gainsaid. Bessie knew there was nothing to be gained by balking, especially given how distant the King had been recently.

She bowed her head meekly, "As you say, Your Eminence."

The Cardinal looked down at her bent head for a moment, and shook his own.

"How did a silly girl like you end up a Baroness?" he murmured, before sketching the sign of the cross over her and sweeping out again, leaving Bessie to her whirling thoughts.

* * *

**October 1519**

Henry glanced around at the energetic courtiers surrounding him, laughing as they dismounted from their horses, ready to dine out of doors in the bright autumn sunshine. They'd had a good run that morning, chasing down two impressive stags and a boar and it showed in the company's buoyant mood.

He paused. That was new. William Carey, newly returned from a diplomatic mission to France, was helping a slender blonde down off her horse as the ladies arrived. Nothing odd in the action itself, but his arm rested around her waist with a degree of possessiveness that spoke of more than just affection. As did the ring that glinted on the young woman's hand as she chuckled and pulled off her riding gloves to tuck her arm through his.

"Will! Who's your sweetheart? Are you going to introduce us?" he called, shouldering his way through the crowd that fell back before him.

William turned, dropping into a bow as he saw who had spoken.

"Your Grace. This is no mere sweetheart. This is my wife, Lady Mary. Her father was my diplomatic partner at Fontainebleu this summer."

Henry thought for a moment, racking his brain to think of the older diplomat's name.

"Sir Thomas Boleyn!" he cried at last, snapping his fingers in triumph.

"Indeed, My Lord," William nodded, "Mary is Sir Thomas's eldest child. She and I met at Fontainebleu when she was in attendance on Queen Claude. We wed in Calais a few weeks ago."

"I see. And what do you make of being home, Lady Mary?"

Mary curtsied, "I am glad of it, my Lord. The years abroad were a fascinating experience, but I'd grown tired of serving a King, Queen and Court who were not my own. I'm glad to be home and to lay my fealty at the feet of the King I was born to serve."

"Very pretty," Henry chuckled, "Well, we shall have to find you a place in my wife's ladies, shall we not, Will?"

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Sire," Mary murmured as William nodded, tightening his hand on her arm briefly.

"That said, Sire, Mary has some wonderful stories of her time in France. Your Grace ought to hear them."

Henry had been about to turn and walk away, but that caught his attention. He considered the young woman a second time.

"Do you, indeed?" he asked, "Well then, perhaps the two of you ought to sit with me to dine. We can hear Lady Mary's stories and you can tell me how the plans are progressing for the summit next summer, Will."

"As Your Grace wishes," William bowed. He was about to help Mary up from her second curtsy, but Henry beat him to it.

"Allow me, Lady Mary. It would be a shame to spoil that pretty gown of yours by leaving you in the mud."

He winked at her and she offered him a shy smile before he released her hand.

"Come," he beckoned, offering her his arm and escorting her to a bench at his side, "Join us when you've helped the Queen, Will," he ordered.

And William had no choice but to do as he was told, even as the whispers started up behind him, the other courtiers wondering what it meant that the King had chosen to help seat the new Lady Carey as opposed to his own wife.


	2. II :March 1520

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was not the chapter I thought I'd write tonight, but it was the one that wanted to be written...

**March 1520**

"Will, thank you for coming to see me so quickly," Henry clapped the younger man on the shoulder, a jovial smile spread over his face.

William bowed, "To be honest, Your Majesty, I was relieved to have an excuse to escape my wife and her women. Moving rooms has them all in a flutter."

Henry chuckled, "Well, you'll not have to worry about keeping out from underfoot for long. It's difficult to be under someone's feet when there's an entire sea between you."

William blinked. An entire sea, between him and Mary? What? How on Earth…

"Sire?" He had to pitch his question just right, for while questioning the King might be allowed, at least for those Henry Tudor trusted, any hint that you didn't trust the King's state of mind or judgement was most certainly not.

Fortunately, the King was too pleased with himself to notice any qualms William might be having, "I'm naming you my envoy to Portugal with immediate effect, Will. You're to quarter in Lisbon for the foreseeable future. I daresay it would please the Queen were you to push for a match between the Princess Mary and one of her Portuguese cousins."

Now William's eyebrows did go up, "But Sire? I thought Her Highness was to be betrothed to the Dauphin. Is that not why Your Majesties are sailing for France this coming summer?"

The King spread his hands. "This is true. However, Her Highness and the Dauphin are still only children and it's a long way between betrothal and the altar. Things may change in the coming years before my daughter is ready to become a wife and mother. There's no harm in putting out some feelers to try and read the situation. Besides, even if the Princess Mary remains destined for a French match, well, I have nieces, do I not? And God Willing, the Queen's belly will yet quicken with a son one of these days."

"God Willing," William echoed, but the words were automatic rather than fervent. Quite apart from the fact that the Queen was sadly reaching an age where another pregnancy would be more akin to an act of God than anything natural, his mind was somewhere else. It was putting pieces together that he had stubbornly refused to see fitted for the past few months. They were making a jolly uncomfortable picture.

He'd become a Gentleman of the Privy Chamber at Christmas. Mary had been assigned to the Queen's household. He and Mary had just been granted some new rooms, far closer to the King's apartments than their old ones. William had chosen to see all such things as a sign of favour, a reward for all his hard work in the diplomatic sphere. But now he was to be sent away. He was to be stationed in Lisbon and from the way the King was talking, Mary was not to be accompanying him. The implication of that was suddenly, disgustingly clear.

Gall welled up in him, acidic in his throat as he forced himself to dip his head.

"As Your Grace pleases."

As the last word left his mouth, William broke protocol and flashed his eyes back up to the King's face. If the man was really planning to take his wife from him while he was abroad and unable to do anything about it, then surely, the least he could would be to look him in the face and admit it.

The King said nothing, but William caught the slightest softening of his shoulders, as though His Majesty was relieved that William hadn't kicked up a fuss.

"I'm glad to see you so amenable to travelling, Will. Who knows, perhaps if things go as I hope they will, I might be persuaded to ennoble you for your efforts. Baron William Carey of Hunsdon, perhaps. How does that sound? Do you think your wife might like to be a Baroness?"

William paused, letting his eyes meet the King's, gaze direct as he answered.

"My Lord, I believe my wife will be grateful for whatever favour you choose to bestow. How could she know to be otherwise?"

Underlying meanings hung heavy in the air between them. William almost saw the wheels turning in the King's head as he searched every syllable of Will's response for any hint of insubordination. He was mightily relieved when, at last, he was waved away with instructions to prepare to leave for Lisbon by the end of the week.

* * *

Upon returning to his rooms, he found Mary arranging her gowns in her clothes press. For a moment, he simply watched her, struck not by her beauty, but by the seeming sadness in her movements.

In that instant, he realised that, unlike most of the girls at Court, she hadn't been hoping and praying this day would come. She wasn't fire and ambition and everything every simpering minx seemed to be these days. She'd married him hoping for a comfortable life, nothing more and nothing less. And he'd failed to give her that. He'd failed her.

He sighed bitterly. Alerted to his presence, she glanced up.

For a moment, they simply looked at each other. Her grey eyes met his blue, a silent frisson of resignation passing between them.

"I have my orders. I'm to embark for Lisbon by the end of the week."

Mary said nothing, only nodded.

Moments passed. He crossed the room to her, cupping her cheek in his palm, enjoying the roundness of it in his hand for what was most likely the final time.

"I am sorry, you know," she whispered, "I didn't ask for any of this."

"I know you didn't," he assured her, "I know you didn't, love. And, for what it's worth, I'm sorry too. I keep replaying that hunt in my mind. If I hadn't taken you, hadn't reminded him that you were raised in France… who knows what might have happened."

"You weren't to know, Will."

"No. But I should have known the idea of charming someone who lived in France, who knew King Francis and his family the way you did, would catch his attention."

"It is what it is," The words came out on a rush of air, "It is what it is, Will, and we shall have to make the best of it. I will play my game and you will play yours and we shall see what comes of it."

There seemed little Will could say to that. He lifted her hand to his mouth for a kiss.

"My Lady," he breathed, formal in a way he hadn't been with her for months.

* * *

The day was barely started when Will found himself in the yard of Richmond Palace, preparing to set off for Dover. He was just overseeing the securing of his trunks on to the cart he was taking with him to the coast, when he heard footsteps flying behind him.

He turned around. Mary stood behind him, her golden curls rumpled with sleep and flying in the breeze. Her gown was laced haphazardly, as though she'd been in too much of a rush to send for her maid.

"I thought I'd missed you!" she gasped.

"Mary," The disbelief was clear in his tone, "I didn't think to see you here."

"I couldn't let you go. Not without saying goodbye."

Instantly, Will's guard went up. Not because of her, but because of how this would seem. The King had become more and more blatant in his favour of Mary in the past few days. Everyone knew only too well that Mary was his now, for as long as he wanted her to be and that, once Will left, it was only a matter of time before it was made official. And King Henry was possessive of his women. He would not take kindly to this, however innocent a farewell Mary meant this to be.

Quickly, Will dismissed the stable hands. He stepped toward Mary.

"Mary, please. I know you mean well, but…," He trailed off. There was nothing he could say. The words just wouldn't come. "Go back inside," he managed at last.

She flung herself at him before he could say another word. Her arms came round him, her cheek pressing tightly into his shoulder.

"Promise me one thing," she choked. "Promise me that, when this is all over, when the King tires of me, we will start again. We will remember that neither of us had any choice in this and we will start our marriage afresh, without either of us holding any of this against one another. Promise me that."

Will sucked in his breath. Did she know what she was asking?

As soon as the question entered his mind, he dismissed it. Probably not. Mary was refreshingly innocent despite her French upbringing. He tipped her face up to him, fighting back the urge to kiss her.

"We will try," he said solemnly, "I promise you, we will try."

He held her at arm's length for a moment, drinking in every last inch of her, and then released her.

Not a moment too soon.

Just as William stepped back, the King strode into view around the corner of the palace.

"What, Master Carey, not yet away? You've a hard ride ahead of you if you're to make your boat!" he called.

William inclined his head, "Indeed, Sire, I am aware. I assure you, I ride at once. Mistress Mary was just being gracious enough to wish me well on my journey."

The King checked at his words, glancing between the two of them. For a moment, suspicion hung in the air, but then it was pushed aside in favour of a tight smile.

"Aye, well, Mistress Mary is an uncommonly gracious lady. I'd say there's few her peer in England. Have no fear, Master Carey. We shall take great care of this jewel while you are away."

So saying, the King took hold of Mary's hand and pressed it to his sleeve. There was no mistaking the proprietary gesture. William had no choice but to bow and know himself dismissed.

He refused to let himself look back. He didn't want his last image of the Court to be Mary, his fragile, gentle Mary, swamped by the shadow of the great, hulking King.


	3. Spring 1520

**April/May 1520**

Mary didn't want to betray Will. She didn't. But, by God, the King was making it hard to resist him.

She'd hoped that, if she held him off for long enough, the King would get bored and move on to an easier target – one of the Seymour mice, for example – but instead, the opposite seemed to have happened. The King seemed to be enjoying the challenge of wooing a reluctant woman, of playing the 'secret' lover for once.

It seemed that, wherever Mary turned, small trinkets littered her surroundings, deliberately designed to brighten her day. She found posies of flowers and rolled-up poems tucked into her stirrups as she went to mount her pony, expensive glass goblets on the table in her rooms when she sat down to dine, fresh scented pomanders or enticing sweetmeats tucked beneath her pillow before she retired.

God forgive her, but she couldn't help but enjoy the attention, just a little. She loved William, but their courtship and marriage had been a whirlwind one, really, little more than a few months all told. They'd been under time pressure, knowing Will would have to return to England sooner rather than later and they would have to wed before he did, if she was to go with him. Will hadn't had the time to court her in quite the way the King was doing, even if he'd wanted to.

So yes, Mary enjoyed the attention and the trinkets well enough. But then, they were easy enough to repay – the odd stolen kiss here or there, a dance or a private supper in the evening, always well-chaperoned, of course, maybe even just the wearing of a brooch His Majesty had given her with a smile or two of thanks directed his way. She could play that game as well as the next woman. Her years in France had taught her that.

But as the spring wore on, the King began to up the stakes. His gestures of affection grew larger, bolder. And that, more than anything, frightened Mary, for she knew that, the more direct the King was in his affections towards her, the more he would want in return.

Oh, she wasn't stupid. She'd known, even when the game began, that she couldn't hope to hold the King off forever. But she had thought she'd be able to decide the timing of the affair a little better than it seemed she would. And while she wasn't entirely like her younger sister, who liked to control every tiny aspect of her own life and was alarmed when she couldn't, to lose control of this, when reputation was everything to a woman, did frighten her.

But it was the King who was pursuing her. Who was she, Mary Carey, to say no to a King?

* * *

"Lady Carey! You'll come with me!" The King called across to her jovially as they left Mass one morning, beckoning her as he spoke.

Mary's heart skipped a beat, and she glanced ahead to the Queen, who had looked back at her husband's voice.

The two women shared a look for a moment and then the Queen gave the minutest of nods, dismissing Mary from her train.

Mary sank into a curtsy as the older woman left, allowing the King to help her up.

"Of course, Your Grace," she whispered.

King Henry laughed, "Always so formal, my sweet. How many times must I tell you, call me Henry. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to hear my name on your lips."

"Once more, Your Grace, as always." Mary held her breath as she retorted softly. There was a heartbeat of silence, but then the King laughed and, in a deliciously heady moment, she realised she had found exactly the right response.

He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, "You are a vixen, Mary Carey. Now come, I have a gift for you."

He began to lead her away. For a split-second, Mary glanced back. Reading her silent signal exquisitely, her younger brother George quickly peeled himself away from the other pages in the Cardinal's household, and followed.

She breathed a quick sigh of relief. Even though she knew the King would never hurt her, not when he was trying to prove himself a gentleman, she always felt safer with her brother at her back.

Minutes later, they emerged into the tiltyard, blinking in the bright April sunshine. A groom stood by the mounting steps, holding a bright bay horse by the rein.

The animal was tossing its head, snorting as its mane whipped in the breeze. It was a glorious colour, a deep, deep bay with four white socks and a white streak high on its head.

Mary caught her breath.

"Do you like her?" The King glanced down expectantly.

Mary's mouth dropped open, "She's for me?"

His Grace shrugged, "Your horse is pretty enough, but she's too short in the back for you. You needed another. And this darling is from the Emperor's own stables in Granada. Only the best for my lady love."

At the King's words, Mary's pleasure at the possibility of owning such a beautiful animal dimmed considerably. Her horse wasn't too short for her at all. But it had been a wedding present from Will, so the King was using an excuse to rid of her of it. He hated the thought of her riding another man's horse while he was pursuing her. That his possessiveness and jealousy should go so far scared her.

But, there was no denying the mare's beauty. The horsewoman in Mary sang at the thought of being able to ride such a wonderful animal.

She forced a smile, "She's gorgeous, Sire. Thank you."

Lest he fear she wasn't being utterly sincere, she tugged her arm from his and crossed the yard to the mare, taking the halter and rubbing the nose that came down to nuzzle at her inquisitively.

"Hello, beauty," she crooned, "Hello."

As it often did when she was around horses, her heart began to ease and the tension to slip from her shoulders, only for them to tighten again as the King called across to her, "What do you intend to call her?"

Her mind whirred in panic for a moment, only for her lips to quirk up into a half-sardonic smile as a thought occurred to her. The King was an educated man. He knew his classical mythology. Let him make of the name what he would. It would be her private rebellion.

She turned to him, tossing her head as she had seen many a Frenchwoman do when wishing to exude confidence, "I think perhaps… Daphne."

In that instant, as she watched realisation flicker across the King's face, Mary knew she would cherish the moment forever. The King might eventually succeed in taking her body, but he would never take her soul.

* * *

"We'll sit in a circle, and Mister Wilder will play some tunes for us as we pass this bundle of rags around," The King explained, "However, he will break off unexpectedly, "Whoever is holding the bundle when Master Wilder stops playing may unwrap a layer. But only one, understand? Whoever unwraps the final layer may keep the jewel."

With much giggling and many excited looks, the young ladies and gentlemen of the court arranged themselves in a loose circle, leaving a space for the King. Mary found herself seated more or less opposite him.

Waiting until her back was turned, Henry whispered a final few instructions to Master Wilder and then took his own seat, tossing the lumpy parcel to Knivert. "Begin!" he ordered.

The tension mounted as the parcel was passed from hand to hand, becoming smaller and smaller at each interlude. It took several minutes, but finally there was only one layer left.

As instructed, Master Wilder waited until Mary took it off her neighbour, young Katherine Stafford, and then abruptly stopped playing.

"Oh, Mary, how lucky! Open it!" Katherine squealed, clapping her hands.

Mary looked across at the King and raised an eyebrow. She was only too aware this wasn't luck. He'd fixed the result, or at least, Master Wilder had known only too well that letting her win would please the King.

The King met her eye coolly and shrugged, "Rules are rules, Mistress Carey. I congratulate you. Open it up."

Mary fought to hide it, but her fingers trembled slightly as she undid the wrappings. What they fell open to reveal took her breath away.

This was hardly just a jewel. This was a full-on headpiece that resembled a crown, made of beaten silver and set with sapphires and large creamy pearls.

"Sire..." she began, but the King cut her off, rising from his seat to come across the circle to remove her hood and set the piece in her hair himself.

The intimacy of the action froze Mary in her tracks. She glanced round the circle, but no one would meet her eye. They all knew better than to intervene when the King had his sights set on a particular woman.

"It would give me great pleasure, Mistress Carey, if you would wear this to the May Day joust tomorrow and if I might ride in your colours rather than the Queen's," he breathed into her ear as he straightened up.

Mary didn't see that she had a choice to do anything but nod.

* * *

If the fact that the King didn't stop to ask the Queen for her favour when he rode out to challenge the Duke of Suffolk in the joust, but instead already had a black pennant adorned with white flowers attached to his lance wasn't enough to set the court ablaze with gossip, then the fact that the Duke not only bowed to Her Majesty, but also dipped his head to the young woman sitting a box over to the left certainly was.

About to run and prepare for his own joust against Sir Edward Seymour, George Boleyn caught his breath and squeezed Mary's shoulder.

"Suffolk just acknowledged you," he gasped in an undertone.

"I know," Mary's smile was tight as she looked over him, though it deliberately softened and widened as she caught the King's eye.

"That means he knows. The King's spoken to him of you. Which means he's serious. You won't be able to hold him off for much longer."

"Believe me, George, I _know!"_

Mary's voice was as close to a shriek as was safe under the circumstances. George could hear how she was to hysteria and knew better than to push her.

"I'd better go," he murmured. "Take care, sister."

He dropped the lightest of kisses on her temple and was gone. Mary would have turned to watch him go, wishing he could stay and protect her from the gossip, but the King was preparing to ride and there would be hell to pay if she wasn't watching him.

She fixed her eyes on the pennant fluttering from his lance, at the Carey flowers, bold against the bright sun, wishing with all her heart that they were enough to protect her, not just from the gossip, but from the inevitably impending culmination of the King's advances.

* * *

Mary knew the knock would come one day, and soon, but she hadn't been expecting that night. When she opened the door to see George, dark and handsome in his new royal livery, for the King had made him one of his cup-bearers just that past month on his sixteenth birthday, as a mark of favour, her heart sank.

"He wants me, doesn't he?"

George nodded, eyes grave.

"I warn you, sister, he's drunk. He's not going to take no for an answer. Not tonight."

Mary swallowed, forcing down the nausea that rose in her at her brother's words.

"Very well," she managed at last, "We'd better not keep him waiting."

She never knew how she got through that walk to the King's chambers. It seemed interminable and yet was over far too quickly, as George hugged her one last time and pushed open the doors, saying, "My sister Lady Carey to see you, Sire."

"Mary! My Sweet Mary!" The King lurched towards her, catching her hand and pulling her to sit by the fire with him, "Come and play a game with me."

"A game, Sire?" Mary's mouth was dry.

The King waved a pair of dice at her haphazardly, "We both roll," he slurred, "The one who rolls lowest has to remove some clothing."

Taken aback at the brazenness of his suggestion, Mary might have turned and fled, had she not heard the door click shut behind her. It reminded her forcibly that the King was well within his rights to do this, that there was nowhere she could go.

Trapped, she pulled up a stool and sat obediently opposite the King.

She lost her first roll, and the second, and the third. By the time the King was in his shirt and hose, she was in nothing but her chemise.

The King was watching her intently as she picked up the dice to roll again.

"One more loss and you're out," he slurred huskily.

Mary's fingers slipped at the reminder and the dice clattered to the table, skidding to a halt. A one and a three. Four. Not good enough.

"Ha! Ten! I win!" King Henry laughed triumphantly.

Blinking back tears, Mary stood and turned her back, fumbling with the strings at her neck. Suddenly she ripped the thing off, willing herself not to lose her courage entirely.

Silence reigned in the room.

"Mary. Mary, look at me," Suddenly magnanimous in victory and sobered by desire, the King turned surprisingly gentle, standing to cup her chin in his hand and force her to lift her head so that he could get a better look at her.

"How beautiful you are," he whispered.

"Sire… I am not a maid," Mary pleaded, hoping that that fact, at least, might stay his hand at the last moment.

"Good," King Henry said bluntly, "At least this way I know that if you should fall with child, it will have a name, come what may."

Transformed, once again, into something almost more animal than man, he swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed before she could utter anything more than another squeak of protest.


	4. IV: Summer 1520

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure where this chapter has come from, but it will set up the next one, so there's that. Let me know what you think!

**Calais, Summer 1520**

"Ha! I win!" Francois spread his arms triumphantly, as the English King sprawled in the sand at his feet. The French nobles scattered around them clapped sycophantically, and he swept them a theatrical bow.

" _Vive le roi!"_  they shouted.

The English, meanwhile, watched their King cautiously. They all knew only too well how badly the King took to losing. Would he be more gracious in front of a fellow monarch?

For a moment, they feared the worst, for King Henry's face clouded over as he was hurriedly helped to his feet. But then his eyes, absently roaming the space further back in the yard, lighted upon a clutch of Englishwomen, among them the Lady Mary Carey.

"You might well take the win on the field, Francois," he chuckled, with only the slightest hint of forced gaiety about his words, "but I believe I win between the sheets."

So saying, he clapped Francois on the back, casting a telling glance, first at the stout Queen Claude, and then at Lady Carey as he did so. Francois followed his gaze.

"Marie Boleyn? She is your sweetheart?"

"Is she not a delectable creature? I ride her so often, I might as well call her my mare rather than Mary."

Francois's jaw dropped, "She has yielded to you?  _Mon frere,_  you are the luckiest man alive! There is not a man in France who has not dreamed of possessing that beauty. She refused them all!"

"Ah well, you see, we Englishmen know how to pursue what we want. We don't give up at the first hurdle. Indeed, we see it as a badge of honour to catch something that may not want to be caught."

"Ah I see! How do you say, A bird in the hand is worth two in the tree?"

"In the bush, but yes, indeed."

It was Francis's turn to chuckle, "I fear for my son, brother. It would appear I have yoked him to a veritable Diana. She too, knows what she wants, does she not?"

Henry laughed as the memory of his daughter Mary pushing the Dauphin down for refusing her kiss a few nights before entered his head.

"She does, she does!"

Outwardly, then, good humour was restored between the Kings as they retreated to the pavilion to dine with their Queens, but for Mary, catching the King's eye as he passed her, the matter was not over. She knew it was not. King Henry had been humiliated by losing that wrestling match, and he was bound to want to restore his pride later that night.

She winced at the very thought of what that could mean for her.

* * *

It was funny, Mary reflected, how sisterly relationships could work. She had never even wanted the King to turn his attention to her, and yet here she was, preparing to take tea with her sister in her finest gown, his obnoxious circlet gleaming atop her head.

She caught her younger sister unawares with her unusually ostentatious display. Oh, Anne hid it well enough that no one else would have known, but Mary had grown up with her sister. She saw the half-step backwards Anne took as she realised just how opulent Mary's rooms were in this faux-palace of King Henry's.

"My, my, you have gone up in the world, haven't you, Mary?" Anne arched an eyebrow, before crossing the room to kiss her older sister's cheek.

There was a half-moment of awkwardness as she bent, Mary deliberately lounging on her padded divan rather than meeting Anne halfway.

Mary waited for her younger sister to sit down before shrugging elegantly, "What can I say? King Henry is good to me. It would be churlish of me to refuse his favours."

"Favours," Anne scoffed, "Like you're not paying for every pearl he gives you with something far more precious than jewels."

Mary couldn't help but flush at the truth in that comment. Eighteen months apart had dulled her memory of just how sharp Anne was; how quick she was to get to the nub of any situation.

"You can't say no to a King, sister," she snapped, before holding out an imperious hand for a goblet of mead. The page who handed it to her looked askance at her – Lady Carey wasn't usually this high-handed in demeanour – but said nothing, only handing Anne a goblet too and then retreating out of earshot, as Mary continued, "Besides, Papa's happy enough with the way I'm handling things. Did he tell you he's to be made Viscount Rochford before the summer is out?"

"He did," Anne murmured, before sighing, "But Papa is, well, a man. He doesn't know what it truly means for a woman to lose her good name."

"What, and you do? Christ, Anne, you're not even fourteen! What would you know of this situation?"

"I have eyes and I have ears. Your King has hardly been discreet over his favour of you, Mary. Did you think the French wouldn't notice that he jousted in your colours alongside the Princess Mary's? That he danced with you last night, almost to the exclusion of all other women? The English might hold their tongues as long as you're in favour, if only to save themselves from royal wrath, but that does not hold true for this court. And your conduct has been deplorable these past few days. I mean, really? Riding pillion behind King Henry at a hunt held to honour Princess Mary's betrothal to the Dauphin? It'll be all over Christendom before the month is out, you mark my words. And that will sully me as well, don't you dare say it won't. I'll be nothing more than the younger sister of the King of England's whore!"

"Get out."

Gone was the veneer of sisterly closeness. Mary was so furious, stinging so much from Anne's well-directed tirade, that she could form only two words, "Get out."

"Oh, so you're dismissing me now, are you?" Anne tossed her dark head as she sprang to her feet, "You're dismissing me because you can't bear the truth! Well,  _Queen Mary_ , enjoy the favour while it lasts, but don't come crying to me when it's over."

She swept to the door, her manner as regal as that of her mistress, the Duchess of Angouleme.

"You speak as though I had a choice," The words fell from Mary's lips before she could stop them, "If you truly claim to understand this situation, Anne, if you claim to know Kings, then do you truly believe I had a choice? In any of it?"

Anne hesitated.

"You could have said no," she said at last. "You could have said no. You could have fled Court. You could have begged William to take you with him to Portugal. You could have done any one of those things, Mary. But you didn't. Instead, you ride around on your cushioned litter, acting the part of a woman far higher born than you are. So forgive me if I don't exactly pity you."

Without another word, she was gone.

* * *

The physicians swarmed through Mary's rooms, one prodding and poking her, the other studying her urine with such intensity, you might have been forgiven for thinking it held the secrets of the universe.

From her ungainly position on her back with her legs spread-eagled for anyone to see, Mary sighed. She wished she could send them away. But King Henry had insisted she let them see her, had insisted that, even if she did have a delicate stomach at times, it wasn't normal for a sickness bug to last a full month at a time without abating or getting worse.

And powerful though her influence on the King might make her, that power did not extend to refusing a direct royal command. Hence the commotion and her current ungainly position.

"If you'll pardon the intrusion, Madam, when did you last have your courses?"

Dr Butts looked up at her and Mary flushed scarlet, "I don't see that that's any concern of yours!" she snapped.

He held her gaze levelly, "Forgive me, Madam, but it might very well be."

Mary bit back her retort and tried to think. Her panic rose when she realised she was drawing a blank. She knew she'd bled before they went to France, but that was back in June. Surely she must have had her courses since then!

"Lady Carey?"

Mary shook herself as she realised Dr Butts was still waiting for an answer.

"Forgive me, Sir. I was just trying to think. I can't honestly remember."

Dr Butts nodded.

"Then, may I suggest, Madam, that you seek out the services of a midwife and ask her opinion? I think there is a very high chance that you may be with child."


	5. V: 1520-1521

**November 1520**

George was worried about Mary. His older sister had never been the most outgoing of people – he and Annie seemed to have inherited all their mother’s vivacity, if not necessarily her charm – but now Mary seemed to be in danger of disappearing into herself entirely. George couldn’t remember the last time she’d said a spontaneous word to anyone but the King. And she only spoke to the King because she couldn’t avoid doing so, not when the King was doting on her every move, solicitousness personified. The King was always like that with a woman when she was carrying his child.

For there was no doubt that Mary carried the King’s child now. Four months into her pregnancy, her belly was swelling enough that it had begun to be unmistakable. Moreover, the baby had begun to kick. The King had been delighted when Mary had confided that particular piece of information.

Indeed, considering this was His Majesty’s eighth prospective child, and one who would be born a bastard at that, George was surprised to see just how much time the King was willing to spend with Mary. His Grace spent hours at a time with George’s sister, often content just to sit with his hand cupping her burgeoning belly, whispering sweet nothings to the unborn child.

Perhaps, George thought, some part of the King had realised that Mary didn’t exactly welcome this child, and was trying to infect her with enthusiasm by being uncharacteristically tender. If so, he wasn’t having much luck.

George had always assumed that Mary would be delighted by the thought of being with child – she’d always enjoyed mothering her dolls more than Annie ever had as a child – but the evidence of his eyes seemed to suggest otherwise. He never caught Mary’s hand straying to her stomacher, or saw her gazing off into the distance with a fond smile on her face.

Quite the opposite, in fact. These days, Mary only mustered a smile around the King, and even that was a strained smile born of politeness. She flinched every time the baby kicked and could barely restrain a grimace or a groan every time she had to excuse herself to use a close stool.

George bore this shell-shocked, prickly version of his older sister for no more than a couple of weeks before he decided to prod her.

He visited her late one night, dismissing her waiting woman with a careless wave of his hand. Pulling his sister up to stand before her looking glass, he slipped his arms around her waist beneath her bump and waited.

It didn’t take long. Although George couldn’t feel the baby move beneath his sister’s gown, he felt her flinch.

“He’s a lively one, isn’t he? The King must be pleased.”

George kept his voice deliberately light. Mary stiffened.

“Not you too, George, please. Not you too!”

Despite himself, George recoiled at the desperation in his older sister’s voice.

“What’s wrong, Mary, what’s wrong?”

“What isn’t, George?! This child has completely taken me over. I feel as though I have some kind of animal in me, leeching all my strength. I can barely eat a thing without suffering indigestion, I can barely sleep, and my back aches as though someone has rammed a hot poker up it. Oh, and the King will scarcely let me out of his sight because he is so cock-a-hoop at having fathered another child. The thought of another four or five months of this… I feel like I’m suffocating!

George had never heard Mary sound so bitter in his life. He blinked and gulped.

“I always thought you’d want to be a mother,” he managed at last, not knowing what else to say.

“Not like this!” Mary exclaimed, “Not like this! If I was carrying Will’s child – Will’s heir – it might be different, but this is another kettle of fish entirely. This isn’t my child, George, this is the King’s child!”

Mary looked as though she wanted to say something more, but her emotions suddenly got the better of her.

Breaking off with a wordless shriek that screamed her pain, she turned into George, pushing him away from her. She flung herself on her bed and burst into tears so fierce George feared they might break her.

Before he knew what he was doing, he had turned on his heel and strode off in search of the King.

* * *

Henry mused over George’s request, rubbing his chin as he did so.

“You want me to send for your sister Anne to wait on the Lady Carey? But why not simply engage another maid from the girls here at Court? Surely any one of the waiting women can fulfil the whims of a pregnant woman as easily as your sister.”

“Ah, but Sire, none of the girls here in England are Mary’s sister as Anne is. Surely a young woman must have her family about her as she goes into confinement.”

“That’s as may be, but if all you want is to send for your sister, why come to me with this request? Why not speak to your father?”

George hesitated, “With all due respect to my father, My Lord, he is a busy man. He does not know or care for the ins and outs of my sisters’ relationship and vagaries of mood as I do. He would not see the benefits in bringing Anne home to serve Mary at this delicate time, when she could just as easily stay in France and contract a good match for herself there. But I do, and I know Your Majesty will understand that a woman with child often needs humouring or distracting from the discomforts of her body. I am confident that Anne’s presence in Mary’s household would help my older sister in that regard. Please, Sire, say you will send for Anne.”

For a moment, Henry scoffed lightly at the younger man’s words. But then, he considered them more closely. There was some sense in what George said about women wanting those they trusted about them when they were with child. Katherine had always sent for Lady Willoughby and Lady Pole whenever she found herself with child, and his own mother had sought solace in the presence of his aunts Cecily and Katherine. There was no reason to assume that his Mary would be any different in wanting her sister at her side when she gave birth. Besides, George was a good lad, eager to please and willing to learn. Why shouldn’t he grant the boy a boon and send for young Mistress Anne, if that was what he wanted?

He waved a hand.

“Write to your sister and tell her it would please us greatly if she was to return to her natal land to serve her sister at this delicate time if you wish, Master Boleyn. I certainly have no objections.”

Knowing that was the best he would get, George bowed a fulsome thanks and hurried out of the room to write to Anne.

* * *

**February 1521**

 “Brother, if I have asked you this once, I have asked you a thousand times! _Why_ did you persuade the King to send for me? If it was to please Mary, I’m afraid you’ve erred grievously. Nothing I do is right for her!”

Anne slammed into the chamber George shared with two young men of the Court, clearly in a temper.

Raising an eyebrow, George turned on his stool and caught her eye.

“Hello to you too, dear sister,” he said coolly.

“George!”  Anne protested, “You could at least _try_ to have a little sympathy. Mary is being impossible again.”

“Our sister is seven months gone with child, Annie, with a child she did not want in the first place. I rather think she’s earned the right to a little capriciousness.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one who has to dance attendance on Mary every hour of every day. She changes her mind as easily as a cloud scuds across the sky. None of her other maids can bear her either, not for any longer than they have to. So, because I’m the youngest and her sister, I’m the one stuck with attending her at night. I’ve not slept a full night in weeks. She’s up almost every hour of the night, wanting help to the close stool or demanding her hair be brushed to ease her headache. Why, just ten minutes ago, she was screaming at me because I couldn’t rub her back exactly to her liking, when she was the one fidgeting at my lightest touch.”

George couldn’t help himself. He smothered a laugh.

“It’s not funny!” Anne swiped at him wildly. He ducked easily, still chuckling.

“Yes, it is! This is precisely why I wanted you home, Annie. Mary had withdrawn into herself three months ago. So much so, in fact, that I was worried we’d never get her out again. You come back from France, and she immediately starts sniping at you just the same way she’s always done. You’ve no idea how much of a weight that is off my shoulders.”

“Oh, well, I’m glad you’re finding so much amusement at my expense, George,” Anne snapped, but her eyes were several shades lighter than they had been just moments earlier. She and Mary might fight like cats over the slightest thing, but George had always been able to ease the both of them. Even just ranting to him had made her feel a lot better.

George reached up to put his hand on her shoulder.

“I know this isn’t easy on you, Annie, but just think. Two more months and then Mary will be the mother of the King’s son. We’ll be the greatest family in England just by virtue of the boy’s birth. Isn’t that worth any bit of unpleasantness now?”

“Two more months,” Anne echoed. Her voice was hollow with disapproval, but her dark eyes were gleaming with ambition now and George knew he had her. She’d do anything she needed to, for as long as she needed to, just as long as she got to call the King’s son her nephew at the end of it.

He squeezed her shoulder and she choked out a laugh.

“Right, I suppose I should go and see how Mary’s doing. No doubt Her Ladyship has decided she wants about four more things from me by now.”

“Good luck,” George offered, deciding to ignore the sarcasm in his younger sister’s voice, and Anne raised her eyebrows.

“I’ll need more than luck, brother. I’ll need a miracle.”

She slipped out of the room and back through the passages to her sister’s apartments. If she was lucky, the King would be visiting, and Mary would be keeping her temper in front of him. If she wasn’t, Mary would no doubt have it in for her for having left to visit George without her permission.

True to form, no sooner had she come through the door, than Mary turned her head to her, a deep scowl marring her usual blonde prettiness.

“Is that you, Anne? Where have you been?” she demanded peevishly, “Jane had to take me to the close stool, and you know I don’t like anyone but you doing it. I’m too ungainly.”

Anne said nothing. It was always best to say nothing when Mary was in a temper like this. It wouldn’t be long before something else distracted her sister.

As expected, the baby kicked and Mary’s scowl morphed into a pout.

 _“_ Little fidget bottom,” she groaned, “Will you never let me be?”

Lifting her head, she glared at Anne, “Well, come on then. Come and help finish the baby’s layette. You may as well make yourself useful, now that you have deigned to appear again.”

Biting her lip against the unfairness of that response – she’d been with George a matter of minutes, nothing more! – Anne nodded and went to join her sister and the maids.

 _“Two months.”_ she reminded herself, “ _This will all be over in two months at the most.”_


	6. VI: Spring 1521

**April 1521**

"Lady Carey has given birth to a healthy boy, Sire."

The words reverberated in Henry's skull, echoing over and over until he couldn't be sure he'd heard them correctly.

"A boy?" he breathed, scarcely daring to hope.

Dr Linacre smiled, nodding.

"A boy, Sire. A boy as healthy as anyone could hope to see."

Henry's heart leapt. A son! He had a son!

"And Lady Carey? She is well?"

"A little tired, perhaps, but no more so than is to be expected, so the midwives tell me. I'm told she is eager to show her son off to his father."

Henry needed no second urging. He leaped to his feet.

"Send word to the Tower. Have them fire the cannons in thanks. And tell Westminster and St Paul's I want those bells ringing and I do not want them to stop!"

He didn't even wait for an acknowledgement. Within seconds, he was gone, haring down the passageway to do something he'd begun to think he'd never get to do. To go and see his son.

* * *

There was no need for the King to be announced when he reached Mary's rooms. She heard him long before she saw him.

"Where is he? Where is my son? Let me see my son!"

She nodded to the two maids in the room. One of them helped her to sit up, propping copious pillows behind her back. The other reached into the lavish cradle at the foot of the bed, rocking the startled baby slightly to calm him before placing him in Mary's arms.

When the King burst into the room seconds later, the two curtsied and withdrew without a word. They knew the new parents would want to be alone for this.

Mary mustered a smile and looked up at the King. She proffered the baby for his father to see.

"Your son, My Lord," she whispered.

"My son! I have a son!" The King swept the little one into his arms, his touch vigorous yet gentle enough one might have been forgiven for thinking the boy was made of glass. His father was certainly looking at him as though he were that fragile.

He said nothing for several moments, drinking in the sight of the tiny boy, revelling in the strength of his kicks against his swaddling bands. A grin so wide it split his face in two spread across his face.

"Lady Carey, I do declare you are the best girl in England. You've made me the happiest man in Christendom. What shall we call the lad?"

"How could he have any name but his father's?" Mary responded instantly, knowing Henry's sense of self-worth was too great to allow for serious consideration of any other name for this, his first-born son.

And indeed, his grin grew even wider at her words, "Henry. You do me honour, sweetheart. Henry Fitzroy he shall be. Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond and Pembroke."

He heard Mary gasp at his casual bestowal of a double dukedom upon a boy not even an hour old, but in truth, the thought was not a new one. He'd spent many of the weeks of Mary's confinement musing over what he would do provided Mary gave him a son.

He wished he could do more for his son, but there was no escaping the fact that Mary was married, so, even assuming he could annul his marriage to Katherine, there could be no marrying her and legitimisation of their son. Which made making the boy a Prince impossible. The Richmond and Pembroke titles, on the other hand, were both old family titles, first granted to his grandfather and great-uncle by that King of blessed memory, Henry VI of Lancaster. There could be no shame in granting them to his son.

As for Mary herself, well, he had it in mind to make Carey a Viscount. Viscount Hundson, as he'd once suggested to Will before he sent him to Portugal. At the time, he'd suggested a barony, but that would make Mary a Baroness, equal in rank to Bessie Tailboys, and Bessie had only given him a girl. The mother of his son deserved a higher title than the mother of his daughter, particularly since he'd never claimed the girl in the first place.

And wasn't her father Sir Thomas angling for the Ormonde title? Wasn't there some talk of Mary's sister marrying her cousin to tie up the competing claims? Well, they needn't worry about that now. He'd grant Sir Thomas the title outright, in gratitude for the birth of his son.

When he told Mary his plans, her jaw dropped.

"Your Majesty is far too generous!"

"Nonsense! You've made me the happiest man in Christendom, darling. You deserve to be rewarded."

Something sparked in Mary's eyes, but before Henry could consider what it might be, she had laughed brightly and leaned forward to rest a hand on the baby's head.

"A double duke indeed! He'll have every man and woman in England angling to be his godparents if Your Grace continues to show him such favour."

"I thought Wolsey for his godfather at the font, and Brandon for his godfather at his confirmation. I'll ask my sister Mary and my aunt Catherine to be his godmothers, if you have no objection."

"How can I think to object? Your Majesty knows the ins and outs of court politics far better than I. I'm sure you would not do your son wrong by choosing inappropriate godparents."

Mary smiled up at Henry, then, and his heart swelled. That was the most natural smile she'd given him in weeks. It seemed their son was breaking down the walls that had sprung up between them since she'd found herself with child.

Impulsively, he leaned across over their son and kissed her.

"Lady Bryan can be his Lady Mistress, as she was Mary's. The Princess is five now, it's high time she had a proper governess anyway. And we'll not send him too far away, not while he's young. I thought Durham House would make a fine residence for him, what do you say?"

"Whatever you think best, My Lord. I know you've had plans for a son for a very long time."

"I have, my darling, I have. And now you've finally allowed me to put those plans into practice. How can I ever thank you?"

"You can thank me too much, you know," Mary chuckled lightly and Henry shook his head.

"Nonsense! Nothing is too good for you now, sweetheart. But listen to me going on. You must be exhausted. I'll take our son to meet his wet nurse and get him some lunch. You just rest, and when you've thought of something you want for yourself, you just tell me. Whatever it is, it's yours for the asking."

His tone brooked no argument, and Mary slid obediently beneath the eiderdown and closed her eyes, much as a child might. Henry looked down at her indulgently for a moment or two and then bent and kissed her.

"God Bless you, Mary Carey. You are the best girl in England," he said softly, before straightening up and carrying his son – his son! – out of the room.

* * *

Of all the boons Henry had thought Mary might ask of him as a reward for birthing him a son, this was most certainly not one that had crossed his mind.

He blinked at her, "You want me to recall Will from Portugal and send you both to the country?"

"Please, Henry, please! Why not? I've done what you wanted and given you a son. I've given you well more than a year of my life. Just let me go, let me be. Please."

Her eyes were round, swimming with unshed tears. She caught at his sleeve, every inch of her body pleading with him.

In the back of his mind, Henry registered the fact that this was one of the few times she'd felt bold enough to call him by his Christian name. She'd never done it before Hal was born, no matter how many times he'd begged it of her. Motherhood had clearly made her bold.

Part of him knew only too well why she was asking. To his chagrin, he wasn't entirely blind to the fact that Mary had felt forced into sharing his bed, that he hadn't always been a fully-fledged gentleman towards her. And, if he was honest with himself, he had no carnal need to keep her at his side, not now she'd given birth. Motherhood changed a woman, changed how she was in bed. Henry had never found himself to be particularly fond of the changes. Oh, he'd kept trying with Katherine, of course, but then, she was his wife. His Queen. That was a different kettle of fish entirely.

But whether he had any intention of calling Mary back to his bed or not was a moot point, at least compared with the babe squalling in the cradle.

"How can I let you go, Mary?" he asked bluntly, thrusting himself to his feet and pacing the room as he spoke, "How can I let you go, when you'll want to take Hal with you? Do you really think I am the kind of man who could let his son be raised by another man? Do you truly expect me to allow Hal to call Will 'Father', when it is only too obvious that he is my son?"

"No. You can have Hal! You can take him to Durham House and let Lady Bryan raise him, just as you planned. I'll never lay claim to him again, I swear it. I swear it on whatever you wish me to swear it upon! Just, just let me go, Henry, please!"

Henry reeled back at her words. Every fibre of his being wanted to rail at her, to call her unnatural for not wanting to mother her son, but as he whirled round to stare at her, something in her eyes, something feral, stopped him.

His voice dropped. "It means that much to you, that I would let you go? You are willing to bargain your son for your freedom? Did my affection for you truly sting so much?"

The old Mary would have cowered at the danger in his voice, would have dropped her head and murmured something placatory. But not this Mary. She raised her head, met his eyes with steel in her gaze.

"I would barter my son for my marriage."

Her words rang in the air, leaving only a heavy silence behind them. Henry searched her face for any sign of duplicity. Finding none, he sighed and spread his hands.

"On your head be it. But be warned that I'll not tell him of you. You'll not get a second chance."

Something flickered in Mary's gaze then, before she controlled herself.

"I am aware, Your Majesty. But, if God is good, He will see fit to grant me other children when the time is right."

King or not, Henry couldn't find the words to compete with the finality in her tone. He stared her down for several more seconds and then, for the first time in their relationship, yielded.

"As you wish, Lady Carey. I'll write to your husband myself."

He turned on his heel and strode from the room before she could form the words to thank him.

* * *

"My God, Mary, I knew from the day your siblings were born that you would never be the cleverest in the family, but I didn't ever consider you'd be this much of a fool. You had the King eating out of your hand, you could have asked him for anything in the world, and you asked him to let you go? What were you thinking, girl?!"

Thomas Boleyn stared at his eldest daughter in consternation, part of him wondering whether it was too late to shake some sense into the chit.

He was so lost in his thoughts that it took him quite by surprise when Mary suddenly slammed down the lid of her travelling chest and turned to face him.

"I was thinking, Father, that I had served the Boleyns and Howards quite long enough, and it was well past time I put my mind to doing something for the sake of my marriage," she said acidly.

Despite himself, Thomas gaped at Mary. He wasn't used to the quietest of his three children challenging him quite so openly. The action only lasted a moment, but it was quite long enough to give Mary an opening.

"Oh, honestly, Father! Aren't you Earl of Ormonde now? Isn't George Viscount Rochford? Hasn't the King made my son a Duke twice over? You can't stand there and tell me that wasn't more reward than you ever dreamed we'd get from my dalliance with His Majesty when it first started. All right, so we haven't found a match for Anne yet, but she's only just fourteen. There's plenty of time to find a husband for the new Lady Anne Rochford. And do you really think His Grace could really be persuaded to be much more generous, even to me? The shine of his son will wear off in time, once he remembers that Hal can never wear the crown. And I, for one, don't intend to be here when that happens. I never wanted to be here in the first place. You can stay and fight with the rest of the dogs for a bone of favour if you wish, but I am done. I have given what should have been the happiest time of my life – the first year of my marriage – to the King instead of to my husband and I am tired. I am tired of the game and sick to my stomach at everything that has happened in the last year and a half. I am going to the country and nothing you can do or say will stop me."

With that, she pushed past her father, counting on the fact that he knew she was scarcely out of her lying-in to make him yield. She snapped her fingers at the page hovering behind her, "Take my trunk down to the yard and send it to Aldenham. I am going to Durham House to take my leave of my son and will leave from there."

"Yes, Lady Hundson," the boy murmured, starting at the unusual hauteur in the new Viscountess's demeanour. Mary swept down the passage without another word.

It wasn't until she was well clear of her father that she let herself stop. She leaned against a tapestried wall, suddenly realising how fast her heart was beating. How much she was shaking.

She'd never challenged her father like that before. Never.

* * *

Hal snuffled in his sleep, whining slightly as his little legs kicked. The early summer sunshine streamed through the nursery window, picking out the hints of copper in his downy hair.

Mary leaned over the cradle, rocking it slightly to send him back into a deeper sleep. For a moment, she longed for nothing so much as to pick him up and cuddle him close to her.

Before she could act on the impulse, however, Lady Bryan entered the room, dipping her knee just slightly.

"Lady Hundson. Mistress Joanna told me she'd shown you up. How wonderful to see you. I trust you find everything to your liking?"

"Indeed, Lady Bryan. I can find no fault at all."

Swallowing, Mary lowered her hand into the cradle, resting it on Hal's back for just the briefest of moments, before drawing herself up and turning to the older woman.

"And His Grace? How do you find him, Lady Bryan? Does he eat well? Sleep well? Behave for the most part?"

"He does, Madam," Lady Bryan glanced down into the cradle, a smile softening the hard corners of her mouth as she looked at the sleeping baby, "He has the lungs of a lion on him when he's hungry, but other than that…"

"Hmm," Mary scoffed lightly in amusement, "He's a Tudor, then. There's no doubt of that."

Silence fell between them for a moment or two before Mary put out her hand and clasped Lady Bryan's wrist.

"Take good care of His Grace, Lady Bryan. At this point in time, the Duke of Richmond and Pembroke is the most precious boy in England."

Lady Bryan looked askance at Mary's formality with her own son, but the truth of the younger woman's words was too strong to deny. She nodded.

"You have my word, Lady Hunsdon."

"Good. I know His Grace will be in safe hands with you, Lady Bryan."

There was nothing more to say. Mary went to the door of the nursery. She glanced back. She nodded at the older woman. She hovered for a moment, then physically tore herself away.

She'd made her choice. Hal was Henry's son, not hers. She'd made her choice. Hal was Henry's son, not hers.

Mary kept telling herself that as she walked down the gallery, descended the steps and nodded to her young son's Steward, John Chapman, before climbing to her litter.

No matter how hard she tried, though, her composure didn't last past losing sight of the gates of Durham House. Shielded by the thunder of her horses' hooves and the curtains surrounding her, hiding her from prying eyes, she broke down into floods of tears.


	7. Interlude: Letters Between the Boleyn Siblings 1522-1526

 

 

**April 1522**

_Dearest Mary,_

_I'm sure I needn't remind you what today is. Indeed, I was in two minds whether to write at all. I didn't want to make today any harder than it need be for you. But then I felt you had the right to hear of your son and the rest of Court, particularly on Hal's birthday. Even if the King doesn't seem to think so._

_Today was a great celebration, for all Hal can never take the throne. The King ordered a joust, and rode himself, with the silver lions of Pembroke flying from his lance. Henry Tudor has never exactly been one for subtlety._

_I can't say the guest of honour was all too impressed with the fanfare, though. He didn't seem to like the trumpets much – screamed every time the heralds blew them, much to his nurse's chagrin. She spent more time soothing him than actually watching the joust, poor woman._

_Still, the King was happy, so that's the main thing. And at least His Majesty had enough tact not to ask the Queen to preside. The Duchess of Suffolk did the honours, given she is Hal's godmother._

_The Queen's feelings are also to be soothed by the Princess Mary being given a household of her own at Ludlow. From what I hear, Her Highness's Scottish cousin, Lady Margaret Douglas is to go with her as a companion._

_As for me, well, Papa has finally given up on marrying me off to Morley's girl, thank God. He says he can do better for me than a Parker, now that he's an Earl in his own right. Not that I care for his reasoning. I'm just relieved I won't have to share my life with the girl. I know you'll think me uncharitable, but Jane Parker looks like a horse and is as venomous as a snake, and that's on a first meeting._

_Well, no more now, His Grace is calling for me. Think of me and Anne now and again, won't you? Buried in the country as you are, you ought to have little enough else to occupy you. Though perhaps trying to get to know William again is keeping you busy, who knows._

_I remain, as ever, etc,_

_Your George._

* * *

_Mary, Cherie,_

_What are you doing with yourself, lost in the wilds of Aldenham? George insists you must be happy, else you wouldn't still be there, a year after you chose to leave Court, but I can't imagine you actually are. You may never have loved the glamour of Court the way I do, but you're a Boleyn, you were born to be a political animal. I can't imagine playing the Lady of the Manor truly has its charms for you. There wouldn't be anything worse for me._

_I, meanwhile, am safely ensconced in Queen Mary's household. I'll say this for you, Mary, your success in giving the King a son has made me one of the most-desired girls in England. Everyone wants to be close to the Duke of Richmond and Pembroke's aunt, especially given the favours the King pours on to the boy. Honestly, Mary, how could you want to throw this away? I'll never understand you._

_Anyway, it is almost time for me to rehearse the May Day masque, so I must run. Send word when you can, not that I can imagine you'll have much to say for yourself given your circumstances._

_Yours, Anne_

* * *

**1523**

_Dearest George,_

_Thank you for your letter of the 12th._ _It is good to hear that you are a rising star at Court. I can't say I would want such a thing for myself any longer, not now that I know what the costs can be, but I know it's what you and Annie always dreamed of and so I am happy for you._

_Is there any news on your betrothal yet? It doesn't seem like Father to delay long in finding you a wife, yet here you are, a year on from being freed from Jane Parker with no match in sight…_

_Nonetheless, I have news for you on the family front. William and I wanted you to be the first to know. You are to be an uncle again. I have spoken to a midwife and she believes I should look to expect the child around All Souls. Moreover, William and I have decided that, if the child is a boy, we would like you to be his godfather and namesake, if you are agreeable? You have ever been my defender, George, and I would be pleased to think that my son could be as honourable and well-meaning as his uncle one day._

_Do write and say you will be._

_With every blessing,_

_Your sister Mary._

* * *

_Dearest Mary,_

_A child! And one you sound so happy to greet! What wonderful news! I am delighted for you, and for William. Of course I will stand as godfather, if you want me to._

_No, no news on the matter of my own betrothal, although Anne is a different story. Expect an express from her as soon as ever she can put pen to paper. I have never seen our younger sister so happy. And Papa is cock-a-hoop too. I don't believe he ever quite believed he'd be able to tie our family to one of the oldest in the land in quite the way he has._

_I'm sorry. I'm sure you're burning with curiosity now, but I really don't feel I can share the news in any more detail than that. It's Anne's to tell, really, not mine. But, as I say, I doubt it will be long before she wants to gloat to her older sister…_

_I remain as ever, etc,_

_Your George_

* * *

_Mary,_

_I am to be a Countess! Countess of Northumberland, no less! You know Harry Percy and I have been quite inseparable since we danced as partners in the Twelfth Night masque? Well, he plucked up his courage on St George's Day and asked his father for permission to break his betrothal to Mary Talbot and marry me instead._

_I confess, I didn't think his father would allow it, but clearly the lure of being linked by marriage to the King's only recognised son was stronger than the idea of a Percy-Talbot match. Lord Northumberland spoke to Father, and Harry and I are to wed at Michaelmas!_

_What do you say to that, sister? Have I not done well for myself, winning Harry and Alnwick and half the North as a marriage prize?_

_And I shall never have to bow to you again. Next time I see you – when_ _**are** _ _you coming out of your tedious country retirement? – I shall be a Countess. We shall be on equal footing once more, as we were when we were girls. Indeed, you're the one who will have to follow the hem of my gown now, Viscountess Hundson._

_By the way, George tells me you are to be a mother again. I offer my congratulations, of course, but don't expect me to come down to Aldenham to wait on you as I once did at Court. Once was quite enough for that experience, thank you. Do try to be a little kinder on William than you ever were on me, won't you?_

_No more for now – Harry and I are dining with Papa and Northumberland tonight so I must go._

_Adieu, Anne_

* * *

_Dearest George,_

_Well, she is here. Almost a full three weeks later than the midwives expected, but she is here and she is beautiful. Yes, I said she. It's not a little George, I'm afraid. Rather, it's a Katherine. I hope you don't mind awfully, being a godfather to a little girl rather than your namesake nephew. She was born on St Catherine's day, and so Will and I have named her for the Queen, though we call her Cate. Katherine seems too long a name for such a little girl._

_Will is quite frankly besotted. Kind though he is, I never expected him to be such a doting father, yet he will happily spend hours in the nursery, even though I am not yet allowed to join him there, having not yet been churched. As for me, before you ask? I am just relieved to have a child that I know will be mine. Cate won't be England's, she won't even be Will's the way a boy would be. She is mine, my precious little girl._

_I'll not write any more now, though I look forward to seeing you when you come to visit your new goddaughter._

_Your loving sister, Mary_

* * *

**1524**

_Mary,_

_Have you heard? George has defied Papa and chosen his own wife! I never thought our brother would have the courage, but he is quite adamant. It must be Jane Seymour or nobody. I can't say I know what George sees in the milksop, myself, but he says there is no other Viscountess Rochford for him._

_Papa is furious and has banished George to the country to help him come to his senses, but who knows if it will have any effect. George can be quite the mule when he chooses to be, and there are already rumours that his would-be bride is carrying his child. If they turn out to be true, I could see Queen Katherine stepping in to help George wed his Jane after all. If nothing else, she's too pious to allow one of her ladies to be left in the lurch like Mistress Seymour has been._

_Though I'll say this for Mistress Seymour. She is adamant that she and George are wed before the law, declared as much to Cardinal Wolsey himself, no less. Which makes me think it must be true. Jane Seymour is too much of a mouse to lie to His Eminence._

_Oh help. If it is true, she's Lady Rochford now, isn't she? Lady Jane Boleyn. By Our Lady. If I must have another sister, why couldn't George have chosen a girl with a bit more spark in her?_

_Well, I suppose George's marital woes are not for me to worry about, at least not when I have Alnwick to be Chatelaine of. Harry's father is ill and Harry is busy with his duties on the East March, so it falls to me. I ride north in the morning._

_Greet Will for me and kiss Cate, won't you?_

_Yours, Anne_

* * *

_Dearest Mary,_

_No doubt Anne's already told you, but I am indeed in disgrace. Papa did not take kindly to my suggestion that I wed Mistress Seymour. Well, no matter. I am quite determined. Jane will be my wife and I shall accept no other. Besides, she may well be with child. We shall know within the month and if she is, Papa will be far too pleased at the thought of another Thomas Boleyn to carry on the family name to mind much who the boy's mother is, I'll wager._

_Remember us all in your prayers, sister._

_I remain, etc,_

_Your George_

* * *

_Mary,_

_I was right. Mistress Seymour did prove to be with child and the Queen did indeed insist on seeing her wed to our brother. Their marriage was a quiet one in the Queen's chapel, with Father Abel, the Queen's own chaplain, presiding. Father was far from pleased, but he held his tongue in front of Her Majesty, and at least our new sister is carrying George's heir. That will count for a lot, I'll wager._

_George's new child won't be your Cate's only cousin next year, either. I, too, am carrying Harry's child. We have already discussed names and agreed on Algernon for a boy and Margaret for a girl, after both Madame Marguerite and Harry's sister._

_Perhaps I'll bring the child to meet their Hundson cousin when we're both well enough. It's been a long time since we've seen one another, sister, though I still claim most of that is your fault. Why choose the country when you could choose Court?_

_With my prayers and blessings,_

_Anne_

* * *

**1525**

_Mary,_

_Ride north at once. Anne's labour went hard for her, birthing two babes at once, and her life is close to despaired of._ _I know the two of you have never been close, but she needs you now as she never has before. Go._

_George_

_PS: Jane's labour, on the other hand, was an easy one. Both she and little Thomas are doing well._

* * *

_Dearest George,_

_You underestimated our sister's strength. She is recovering. Slowly, and the physicians have forbidden her from sharing Harry's bed until further notice, but she is returning closer to the land of the living with each passing day. Thank the Lord._

_The twins too, are growing. They are small and frail, but Constance and Grace, their nursemaids, watch over them keenly and we haven't unduly feared for their lives yet. Little Margaret, at least, seems a hungry one, which can only be a good thing. Algernon, sadly, seems not to thrive so much. He constantly has a runny nose and an upset stomach. But then, he is a twin and small and frail. He may outgrow the weakness yet. We shall see._

_I shall stay here at Alnwick until Anne is strong enough to manage the household without help. For once, we seem to be getting on, despite not having you as a buffer. Perhaps motherhood is softening Anne's sharper edges._

_Congratulations on your own child! Do write soon and tell me more of Jane and little Thomas. I know Anne will love to hear of them too._

_Your loving sister Mary_

* * *

_George,_

_You had better come. Bring Harry and come. Algernon died in his sleep last night, aged only 9 weeks. Anne is inconsolable. She'd only just been allowed to spend time with the children, now that her strength is coming back, and now this. She needs Harry and she needs you. You've always been closer to her than I have. Do hurry._

_Mary_

* * *

**1526**

_Dearest Mary,_

_You were right. Being back at Court is good for Anne. She is not quite as vivacious as she once was, but she's more like the Anne we knew than she was up North, that's for sure. Mind, I think being allowed back into Harry's bed at long last probably helps. I have a feeling they have buried their mutual grief for little Algernon in trying to give Meggie a younger brother. Not that I probe in any great detail. If propriety didn't preclude me from asking, I'm too busy with my own family. I don't know if I've told you but Jane is due to give me another child by the end of the year._

_And of course, Court keeps me busy. The whole place is agog with the King's latest dalliance. This is no light flirtation, sister. The lady in question is Lady Mary Talbot, daughter of the Earl of Shrewsbury, so she's not exactly a nobody. And the King rode in her colours at the Shrove Tuesday joust. Oh, His Grace didn't say as much – his official motto was 'Declare I dare not', but everyone knows that yellow chevrons and stars appear on the Talbot crest.  
  
No one knows what is to happen. You, of all people, know what happened last time the King rode in colours other than Princess Mary's or the Queen's, but Lady Mary's birth is too good for the King to reasonably be able to hope to make her his mistress the way he did with you. However, His Grace is already married, so Lady Mary can hardly hope to be Queen. Though God knows she carries herself as though she does._

_I shall keep you updated. You might well prefer life in the country, but it is only right for the Viscountess Hundson to be kept abreast of all such matters. You never know when the information might come in useful._

_Take care of yourself and give little Cate a hug from her godfather. Will sends his love and asks that I let you know he arrived safely and pass on his promise to write as soon as he is settled back into Court._

_I remain, as ever, etc,_

_Your George  
_


	8. VII: Summer 1527

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just another bridge chapter, I'm afraid, but the next chapter gets things moving again properly. And I couldn't resist having my Boleyn sisters getting on for a change. Enjoy!

**Summer 1527**

"Honestly, Mary, she's impossible! The longer she has the King at her beck and call, the more arrogant she becomes!"

Anne flung herself down in the grass beside her older sister, huffing in exasperation. Mary paused to bite off a trailing bit of embroidery thread and raised an eyebrow.

"Are you pretending you wouldn't be? If you had the most powerful man in England lovesick as a green schoolboy and granting you anything your heart desired, wouldn't you be a little arrogant too?"

Anne bit the inside of her cheek, waving to Cate as she ran past, flower crown askew on her sandy hair, her two-year-old cousin Meggie toddling after her, alternating between giggles and lisping plaintively for Cate to wait for her.

"No," she said at last, "No, I can't say I wouldn't be. But, since I will never be in her position, that doesn't mean I can't find the woman's conduct repulsive. She's been swanning around Court, demanding a precedence that isn't truly hers. She's demanded rooms of her own, a household to rival the Queen's. And the King's just rolling over and giving it to her. I can't imagine why!"

"I can," Mary muttered acerbically, "Have they actually shared a bed yet?"

That gave Anne pause. She considered for a moment, before shaking her head, "Not to my knowledge."

"Well, there's your answer then! Henry always showers his girls in gifts until they give into him. You mark my words, the moment they share a bed, he'll begin to tire of her sharp tongue.

"I wish they would, then. It might sweeten the Lady Mary's temper somewhat."

"She's not the easiest of mistresses, then?"

"Not from what I hear, no. Half her household seem to be in tears on any given day. Dorothy's in her household and she says working for Mary Talbot is like running around after an over-indulged child. The Lady Mary, as most of the Court call her, finds pleasure in nothing and fault in everything, just because she likes having everyone walking on eggshells around her."

Mary's eyes widened. "And the King allows this?"

"Allows it? He downright encourages it. Oh, not by anything he says or does, but everyone knows he'd marry Mary Talbot tomorrow if he could get an annulment from the Queen. That, in itself, goes a long way to having people fawn over the Lady, even if nothing in her conduct suggests she's worth fawning over."

"But he'll never get his annulment. Not now, not with Clement Charles's prisoner."

"No. You know that, I know that. But has it made a blind bit of difference to Mary Talbot? Do you know what she said when the news came?"

"No," Mary shook her head.

"She said she wished all Spaniards were at the bottom of the sea, for at least then they couldn't interfere with her betrothal."

Mary's jaw dropped, "She said that?!"

Anne nodded, "In public, no less. Not in front of the King, at least, but it was public enough. It was all round the Court in hours."

"And she considers herself betrothed to the King?"

"Apparently."

Mary's jaw worked, but nothing came out. At last, she said nothing more than, "Promise me one thing, sister. Promise me you'll never make an enemy of Mary Talbot."

Her words fell into silence. She hadn't expected anything less. If Mary Talbot was even half as arrogant as the stories painted her to be, not making an enemy of her might not be a promise Anne was able to keep.

With an effort, Mary pulled her shoulders back and pasted a smile on her face, "Anyway, let's talk of something more cheerful. Cate, come here, darling."

She beckoned to her daughter, who ran over, laughing, "Yes, Mama?"

"Tell Aunt Anne what I told you this morning."

Mary took her daughter's hand and squeezed it encouragingly, but Cate needed no such encouragement. She beamed at the thought.

"I get to be a big sister!" she squealed, leaping in the air in excitement.

Now it was Anne's turn to gasp. Her eyes flashed to Mary's face, "Truly?"

Mary's answering grin was as wide as her daughter's. "I had the midwives confirm it just before you came. I'm due in midwinter."

Two or three years earlier, Anne would never have been as excited for her sister. But motherhood had changed Anne. It had given her insight into aspects of Mary's character that she'd never understood before.

Laying her sewing aside, Anne stood and crossed the few paces to her sister, pulling her gently up into a hug.

"Congratulations, Mary. I know how much you and Will have wanted a big family."


	9. VIII: Summer 1528

Henry felt the wood of the table bite into his palms, warming beneath his skin. He looked at Katherine, his blue eyes boring into her darker ones.

"No, Katherine. You are going to Wales to join our daughter at Ludlow. That is an order."

"Henry, I am your Queen. My place is at your side, especially in this time of crisis. Please. Do not send me away."

To his surprise, Henry found himself mesmerised by the way Katherine's mouth shifted as she spoke. How things changed. In the early years of their marriage, her accented English had seemed enticing to him. It had glittered with promise, with the sense of something exotic, something half-forbidden. Now it just annoyed him, particularly when she was resisting him.

"Your place, Madam, is wherever I decide it is. You will order your household to begin packing for Wales immediately."

"And leave you to play summer sweethearts with the Lady Mary? With your northern rose? I think not!" Katherine's eyes flashed with a hint of her old fire.

"This has nothing to do with Mary!"

Rage bubbled up in Henry and it took all his self-control to stop himself back-handing Katherine across the face. Why did she always have to make everything so difficult? He might not love Katherine anymore, but he still had respect for her. He still acknowledged her as the mother of his only legitimate daughter. He was trying to do the best he could for her. Why couldn't she see that?!

With an effort, he controlled himself.

"This has nothing to do with Mary," he repeated tightly, "I am sending her north to Sheffield, if you must know. I am trying to keep us all safe, Katherine. All of us. Won't you help me do that? And if, God forbid, anything should happen to me, our daughter the Princess will need you. Would you deny her a mother's love and guidance in this time of turmoil?"

Silence stretched between them, awkward and full of difficult undertows. At last, Katherine sighed.

"For our daughter, then. But only for our daughter."

She made Henry a stiff half-curtsy. He nodded stiffly, barely holding back an exhalation of relief.

"Thank you," he said softly, "I pray God you'll both be safe in Wales."

* * *

The rider burst into the courtyard at Tyttenhanger, their sweat-lathered horse almost collapsing out from under them as they wrenched to a halt.

"The King!" They bellowed, "I must see the King!"

So clear was their urgency, that even now, at this time when everyone feared nothing more than contagion, they were ushered into His Majesty's presence without even stopping to change their sweat-soaked clothes, despite it being the middle of the night.

Henry had been soundly asleep, and was still blinking his drowsiness away when the rider was ushered in to meet him, but the gravity and urgency in the rider's face woke him as suddenly as a drenching with cold water would.

"What is it? What news do you bring?"

The messenger fell to the floor.

"Your Grace, it is the Queen! She lies deathly ill at Ludlow!"

The silence was suddenly so thick one could have cut it with a knife. The colour drained from Henry's face. He swayed on his feet, scarcely aware of the courtiers who had begun to crowd into the room, despite the hour.

"Your Grace."

No one was ever sure who dared speak first, but they were forever grateful to them for breaking the stifling deadlock. Their murmured words spurred Henry into action.

"Get Butts in here, now!" he snarled, racing to the portable medicine chest that he kept with him at all times. "I want him to take the new tincture I made up yesterday and ride for Ludlow as soon as its light!"

* * *

William Butts had never ridden so hard or so fast in his life. He knew every hour, every minute, was of critical importance. He had to be able to say he'd done everything within his power to keep Queen Katherine alive.

In his bags were trinkets from the King – a bottle of tincture, a letter assuring the Queen of his undying respect and affection, a rosary made of jasper to be hung around her neck and try to promote healing.

William had to admit he was surprised at how fearful the King was for Queen Katherine's life, how solicitous he was being of her. Everyone knew how desperate the King was for an annulment, how much he longed to be able to marry Lady Mary Talbot. It would solve all His Majesty's problems at once if Queen Katherine died this summer.

But that was treason, so William stifled the thought and spurred his horse all the harder.

* * *

Ludlow was a jewel of a castle. Cream stone nestled against a backdrop of deep green forest, towering above the town that clustered close by.

William had just processed that thought when a young woman gowned in jet-black velvet appeared in the castle doorway.

She appeared without fanfare, but that didn't mean William didn't recognise her. Her regal bearing and curling red-gold hair gave her identity away as clearly as any number of blaring trumpets.

Sliding from his horse, William swept forward into a deep bow.

"Your Highness. My name is Dr William Butts. I have come from Tyttenhanger, from His Majesty the King. I have come to see what I can do for Her Grace Queen Katherine."

There was a pregnant silence. Deep in his bow, William heard the young Princess swallow audibly.

"My father is kind," she said at last, "You must thank His Majesty for his consideration. Sadly, Master Butts, God rode faster than you did. He took my – He took Her Majesty to join his train of angels in the early hours of this morning."

For several long moments, nobody dared move. Nobody dared speak, think or even breathe.

Suddenly, William's medical instincts jolted him. He straightened from his bow and moved towards the Princess in one swift step.

The guards behind Her Highness moved with him, but he was faster. As such, it was his arms that closed around the Princess, holding her up, as her legs, weakened with grief and shock, gave way under her.


	10. IX: Summer 1528

"Oh, Mary, she's a lovely little thing," George looked down at his new niece, smiling at her as she reached up, cooing, clearly longing to be held.

He obliged, scooping her up and carrying her over to join her mother in the window seat, "What does William make of her?" he asked, as he settled himself beside his older sister.

Mary chuckled, "He's thrilled to bits. Honestly, I thought he was fond of Cate, but he absolutely dotes on Alice. As does Cate, actually. I swear that girl was born to be an older sister."

As she spoke, she glanced over towards her older daughter, who sat threading beads on to a skein of wool, watched intently by her younger cousin Dorothy. George followed her gaze, "It doesn't surprise me. Cate seems to have the patience of a saint with Dot. But William seriously didn't mind Alice not being a son?"

"Now, why would I mind a thing like that?"

William Carey broke into their conversation as he entered the nursery, pulling off his hat and running a hand through his hair.

George looked up at his brother-in-law, but it was four-year-old Cate who reacted first.

"Papa!" she shrieked, leaping to her feet. Beads scattered everywhere as she flung herself into her father's arms.

Will laughed and crouched down to catch her, before straightening and spinning her around, "Hello, Cate, darling."

"I'm making necklaces! One for me, one for Dot, one for Alice, and you and Mama and Aunt Jane and Uncle George and Cousin Tom and even baby Mar'gee."

"Well, that is very kind of you. You're very busy, aren't you?" William tapped her nose with a forefinger, "Shall I put you down so you can get on with it?"

Cate nodded and kissed him., "I'll make yours next! I've finished mine and I'm nearly done Dot's so I'll make yours next!"

"I look forward to it," Will slid his daughter to the ground and crossed the room to George and Mary.

"There's the answer to your question, George. If all my daughters are as lively as Cate and half as beautiful as their mother, then I won't miss a son at all."

"You must be the only man in England who doesn't want a son to inherit his titles," George commented.

Will shrugged, putting a hand on Mary's shoulder as he came to a halt at her side, "I'd rather have Mary than a dozen sons. Heaven knows I fought long enough to be able to have her at my side."

"Oh, Will, stop! You're making me blush!" Mary chided lightly as her cheeks pinked at the compliment. She tilted her head, however, until it rested against his chest. Will glanced down at her and then bent so that his chin rested against the top of her head.

George watched them together, torn between shame at intruding on what was so obviously a private moment and delight to see his sister so happy. It was far too long since he'd seen her so comfortable in her own skin and safe in the arms of a man who clearly adored her.

Eventually, Will lifted his head.

"I'm glad to find you here, actually, George. News has come from Court. Shall we discuss it downstairs?"

"Hmm. Good idea."

George nodded. Mary caught the eye of a hovering nursemaid, who took Alice from George's arms. He got up and Mary followed suit, tucking her arm through Will's as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

They retreated to Mary's solar. On the threshold, she paused, "Shall I fetch Jane? I know she's barely churched and the birth went hard on her, but…"

"No," George shook his head, "She needs her rest. I'll tell her later. You have my word," he added, when Mary looked at him acerbically.

"Very well, if you say so," his older sister muttered, crossing the room to pour all three of them a mug of ale.

Will nodded in thanks as she passed him his, took a long fortifying draught and then exhaled.

"I suppose there's no beating around the bush. Queen Katherine is dead. She died of the Sweat at Ludlow a week ago."

George gasped, and heard Mary do the same beside him. Katherine of Aragon had played a central role in English politics for longer than any of them could remember. To imagine Court without her now was…well, it was inconceivable.

"This changes everything," he breathed. Will nodded.

"It does. But then, in many ways, does it? We all know who the next Queen of England will be."

"The Lady Mary? You truly think the King will still marry her, now that he's a free man to marry any Princess of Europe, if he so wishes?"

"You know Henry Tudor's pride as well as anyone, wife. Do you really think he'll turn his back on the Lady Mary now, after everything he's done for her?" Will looked searchingly at Mary, and, after a moment or two, she shook her head.

"I suppose not, no."

"Exactly. He might be persuaded to wait a few months, if only for decency's sake, but you mark my words, they'll be married by Twelfth Night, if not before. Which means the Talbots will be the first family in England, and Lady Mary Talbot will be the most powerful woman in the Kingdom."

George grimaced, "That's going to be  _fun._ "

* * *

The King threw back his chair as he leaped to his feet, incensed by his councillors' prevarication.

"It seems perfectly simple to me. Katherine is dead, struck down of the Sweat. My beloved, meanwhile, continues as hale and hearty as the day she left Court. Indeed, Sheffield has not even been touched by the disease. What clearer sign do we need that God is on our side; that He means me to marry the Lady Mary and that He will bless our union with what this country so needs, a Prince of Wales?"

"I can certainly see why you believe that to be the case, Sire, and no one is doubting the Lady Mary Talbot's many virtues and excellent qualities, but she is not a Princess. With Queen Katherine dead, Your Majesty is a free man. You could have your pick of any Princess in Europe. Why throw that away for a lesser match, even if the woman in question is the loveliest and most gracious woman in the realm?"

Brandon watched Wolsey spread his hands questioningly, entreating the King to see the sense in what he was saying, and marvelled that the older man was able to keep his voice so even, even when he felt so strongly about what he was saying. Everyone knew Lady Mary Talbot despised Wolsey for having allowed the Boleyns to wrest the young Northumberland heir away from her and marry him to the young Lady Anne; that she hated him for not having defended her betrothal to Harry Percy. And the feeling was mutual. Indeed, Brandon had to admit that just about the only thing he and the Cardinal agreed on was their loathing for the Talbot chit. Quite apart from her breeding (or lack of it), Lady Mary was far too spoiled and sour-tempered ever to be worthy of the King. Anyone with half an eye could see it. The only one who could not, it seemed, was the King himself.

"What? Offer myself round Europe like a stud stallion for breeding? And break my word to the Lady Mary in the process? I think not! I'm surprised at you for even suggesting it, Thomas. You're a churchman. You, of all people should understand the importance of keeping one's vows. I vowed to marry Mary Talbot the moment I was a free man and so I shall!"

"Harry," The voice was soft, but it made everyone stop and listen. There was only one man in England who still dared to call the King 'Harry'.

Thomas More pushed himself away from the wall he'd been leaning against, and moved closer to the council table, never once taking his eyes from the King's face.

"If I might counsel patience, My Lord," he said coolly, "These last few weeks have been turbulent for us all. And Queen Katherine was much beloved by the people. To marry the Lady Mary Talbot too soon might be construed as disrespectful to Her Grace's memory."

Colour flooded the King's face and More held his hands up defensively, pre-emptively warding off any furious responses, "I'm not saying don't marry her, Your Grace. On the contrary, do, if that's what you want. After all, you've married once to please your country. It's only fair you should do so now to please yourself. All I'm asking is that you wait."

"How long?" The King snapped sulkily, "How long would you have me wait, Thomas? I'm not getting any younger, you know. This country still needs a Prince of Wales, and sooner rather than later."

More shrugged, "Six months, thereabouts?"

"Five," The King snapped, "Five. We shall have a Christmas wedding. No doubt the Lord will see fit to bless our union if we marry on His feast day."

A barely-repressed shudder passed through the room at the King's words, though no one dared say anything out loud. Brandon didn't dare catch the eye of anyone else in the room, for fear that he would no longer be able to hide his distaste for the future Queen if he found a sympathetic audience. He knew only too well what the other nobles were thinking, however, for he was thinking it himself. Lady Mary Talbot was the most arrogant woman in the Kingdom. No one was looking forward to having her as their Queen.

* * *

George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, looked his third daughter up and down and rubbed his hand across his face.

"Why do you find this so hard to understand, Mary? You can't go on like you are. Sulks and temper are all very well in a mistress. Indeed, they're almost attractive. In a mistress. But do you really think King Henry will allow you to behave with such impunity when you're married? No, of course he won't. You need to learn to control your temper."

"No, Papa,  _you_  don't understand!" Mary tossed her head, eyes flashing, "Have you forgotten that  _I_  was the one who set my cap at King Henry? It wasn't you who began this game, it was me. The King fell in love with  _me._ He respected  _me._ And  _I_ am the one who will become his Queen. I'll thank you to remember that when you speak to me!"

"And, I,  _My Lady Mary,_  am the one who gave you life. Queen or not, you still owe me that respect," George snapped, before exhaling, long and heavy, as he fought to control his temper.

"You do realise the game's not over yet, don't you?" he said at last, "It's not over until you have the King's ring on your finger and a healthy Prince of Wales squalling in the cradle. And what happens if the boy doesn't come? If the King tires of you before you give him a son? He's waited all his life for a Prince, he won't want to wait much longer."

"That's not going to happen," Mary snarled, baring her teeth in fury, "Katherine is dead! Katherine is dead and the Lord is smiling upon me. I will share the King's bed and I will give him a son. And when I do, when I do, Father, I will remember that you, of all people, said I would not."

Despite himself, George took a step back in the face of his daughter's vehemence.

Seeing it, Mary lifted her head and looked her father dead in the eye, her chin high and her shoulders set. She jerked her head, "You are dismissed, Lord Shrewsbury."

George's mouth fell open, "You dare… Where did we go wrong with you, Mary? None of your sisters were ever this intractable."

"None of my sisters are on the verge of being Queen," Mary spun on her heel, her skirts of deep blue satin flicking around with a satisfying snap. She clicked her fingers and her women closed in around her, forming a human barricade between herself and her father.

A heartbeat passed. Two.

George sighed. He was pragmatic enough to know he'd lost this round. He dipped his head briefly, though why he bothered when his daughter couldn't see it was a mystery even to him, and went to the door.

The door creaked as he opened it. Mary sniffed.

"Oh, by the way," she said, almost as though talking to herself, "What I said about remembering that you said I wouldn't have a son? That wasn't a threat, Papa. That was a warning."

George's mouth fell open again, but before he could respond, Mary's new guardsman steered him from the room and slammed the door in his face. George was left blinking stupidly at the heavy slab of oak, wondering how on earth he'd found himself in this position.


End file.
